Late winter lake.
Still frozen, but not dead.
It shudders, just below the surface.
Eerie, high pitched noises echo across the ice.
A sound similar to a hammer applied to sheet metal.
As I make my away from the shore-
Each step leads to a crack and a groan,
Each groan sends out hundreds more.
They are ghosts of what was-
Remnants of autumn waves; summer white caps.
I have heard the whispers for months.
Subzero voices in the near dark,
Murmured to bare trees and heavy clouds.
Fissures small at first, have lengthened-
As days have grown longer.
Each evening I walk further, past petrified buoys.
Listening- hoping to understand the language.
Venturing out, but able to make it back to solid ground.
At some point I expect I will stroll
too late.
Or too far.